Running Up That Hill
by stranded chess piece
Summary: Sam's optimism has its limits. As does Dean's. Set early S3.
1. PART ONE

_This is quite short but I thought I'd throw it in here, seeing as I've had it sitting around. Set S3, so no real spoilers unless you haven't seen AHBL 1+2, just minor speculation. _

_Once again, I don't own them, just borrowing._

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Sam was so sure he'd find a way to save his brother. For almost four months, he charged along, fuelled by such great faith he'd find the answer he was seeking, find a way to get Dean out of the deal he'd made. He barely stopped to consider the other path their lives could take, the road they'd have to walk down should no answer present itself. His thoughts barely touched on the possibility that this time there might not be an escape hatch, no convenient crack in the fine print they could slip through, no way to undo what had already been done. He scarcely dwelled on the prospect that he might have to say his last goodbye to his best friend, once Dean's twelve months met their close. He didn't think of these things because, quite frankly, Sam didn't consider them options. 

So what derailed him? Sam couldn't be sure. He and Dean had just completed a hunt involving a poltergeist in a nineteenth century hotel and were kicking back in their crusty motel room, tending to their minor battle wounds, when fear twisted his gut. He was standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, having a conversation with Dean's reflection, when the gravity of their situation dropped his heart through his ribcage and shattered it upon the cold, tiled floor. Despair rose in a sickening wave from his feet to his forehead, causing him to wrap fingers around the thin rim of the basin to keep from falling down. Thankfully, Dean was too engrossed in what he was watching on the television to notice Sam's suddenly faded complexion. Sam hastily closed the bathroom door, announcing he was having a shower. He sat, scrunched up under the scorching water until it ran cold and shook him into numbness, his tears stinging salt trails down his cheeks.

The nightmares began. That night he was rattled by half a dozen frightening full-length features involving Dean's dreaded 'final hour' and the crushing sadness it would bring. He woke, countless times, twisted in his bed sheets, gasping for air and fighting claustrophobia, battling to be free of not only the linen but also his surging anxiety. He buried his face in his musty pillow so as not to alert his brother and worry him. But the more he dwelled upon the deep sense of foreboding swelling within him, the more it threatened to devour him.

When he pulled himself from his bed the following morning, the feeling tailed him like a shadow, matching his every step; a dark reminder that the clock was ticking and that Dean's time was running out. It was hardly a surprise, then, that his worry eventually manifested itself physically, and two weeks later, Sam became sick.

Much to his dismay, he was unable to hide his condition from Dean. Big brother always had an eye for detail, and it didn't take long before he cottoned on to things. They were on the verge of heading off to another gig when Sam's headache and queasy stomach got the better of him, pressing him to his knees in the middle of the motel room floor. Dean's concerned expression was a thumbnail in the corner of his vision as reality began to twist, and a deafening roar rose to meet his ears. At first Sam thought the noise was external, but it quickly became apparent that it was the sound of unconsciousness coming to claim him. He fought a brief battle against his spotting vision, willing the dizziness away. But it was futile, and his efforts were useless. Sam felt the ground give way beneath him as he fell into oblivion.

Dean postponed the new hunt, despite Sam's best efforts upon waking to convince them both that he would be fine. Dean ignored him, paying for another fistful of nights at the motel, and immediately began to nurse his ailing sibling. Sam, sensing his brother's worry, became deeply ashamed. He was the cause of so much trouble for his brother when, really, Dean shouldn't have to look out for him. That job had been done, and Dean had passed with flying colours. It was Sam's turn now, to take care of the older. This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. For once, Sam knew beyond a doubt, it was supposed to be the other way around.

As the hours rolled on, it became apparent that Sam wasn't going to get better overnight. His headache got worse and the slight tremors that had rippled through his aching body increased, evolving into a sickening, teeth-chattering trembling. Dean wrapped him in blankets, forcing pills down his throat. Big brother murmured light insults and reassurances, his concern warm and gentle in a way that somehow managed to fracture Sam's heart. A tiny voice grated in the back of the younger brother's mind, continuously scolding him for being ill. It was vital he stay sharp if he was to safeguard Dean against the things that would eventually come to claim him. Night came on, and the nightmares returned.

The dreams assaulted him viciously, from all sorts of dark places. They came from all sorts of deep crevices in his frenzied mind. Sam tossed and turned through their disturbing scenes as if being thrown by the sea. He heard voices, whispering and hissing, burning him with fear. Dean's voice stood out amongst the others, burning him also, only with courage instead of panic. Sam couldn't be sure, but he guessed that his brother stayed beside him the whole of that first night. Dean was a light that helped him navigate his way through the nightmares that plagued him like a curse.

Sam cried out a couple of times, despite how hard he tried to bite down on the sound before it tumbled from his lips. Dean's presence was always there; a squeeze on his shoulder, a fresh compress lain upon his head. The fever carved its frantic way through his soul, blowing all of his horrors out of proportion and reducing him, sometimes, to tears. He felt himself become somehow less of a man, in such a broken state, and he began worrying more that he was a burden instead of any kind of asset to his brother. It burned his heart.

The second day the madness reached a plateau. Sam lay on his back, sweating against his pillow and sheets, as Dean kept busy in the room. A scattering of times he piped up and told Dean to go out, stop hanging around. But big brother refused, infuriatingly patiently, and explained that they'd go out together when Sam was better. Sam went to reply but was stopped short by an agonizing fit of coughing that rattled his skull, nearly driving him from his bed. Dean's hands were there to catch him, as always, guiding him back to safe ground. Sam held his tongue, and drifted back to sleep.

Sometime, between days, Sam woke to find himself in the shower. He wasn't able to remember crawling in there, let alone having had the energy to strip down to his boxers. Cool water splashed over his face, and someone gently washed the perspiration from his skin. Cracking an eye open Sam saw his brother on hands and knees, sleeves rolled to the elbows, leaning into the shower, casually washing him. Dean commented that if Sam didn't get better soon, they'd have to go to the hospital. Sam was appalled to hear himself pleading, begging like a five year-old not to be taken there. The idea was completely frightening. Somewhere, in the back of Sam's mind, he was aware that he was being irrational, but he couldn't help it.

Sam lost track of time. His determination to get well overrode all else. His fears evolved, they mutated. Pretty soon he began wondering whether he was being selfish in his desire to save his brother from the demon's deal. There was just so much about Dean that made up so much of Sam's world. Without his sibling by his side, Sam worried that he'd crumple like a puppet with no strings, as hollowed as an empty shell upon a beach. He'd always prided himself on his independence, but the truth was he was so terrified of being left alone. He didn't want to lose Dean like this. He didn't want to be the cause of his brother's end. The guilt of that would surely eat away at him until there was nothing left. He didn't want to grow old if it meant growing old on his own. Was that wrong?

More nightmares came. They ravaged him senseless. Sometimes they were clear as day but mostly they were a fit of emotions, undefined, each as frantic as the last. At some point he awoke, flung bolt upright in his dishevelled bed, eyes stinging with sweat that dripped from his brow. Teeth rattling and head spinning, he sought out his brother, but was unable to find him. Sheer panic sent him tumbling from his bed and across the room.

The front door was ajar, and Sam slowed, grabbing at the curtain of the window and peering through the frosted glass. He saw Dean standing like a statue looking out at the night; the older brother's shoulders slumped in a way that was troubling, his stature shrunken. It was a harrowing scene, and a voice in the corner of Sam's mind urged him back to bed. He obeyed, leaving his brother to his midnight ponderings. When Sam awoke the next morning and recalled the event, he was sure it couldn't have been real. Dean never looked like that.

Sam became angry. He became angry at the situation. Too much time within his mind was causing hairline cracks to appear in his sanity, slowly pulling him further apart. He became angry with Dean, angry with the demon. He found himself regretting the fact that he was alive at the expense of his brother. Dean had taken something that wasn't his. The older hunter had removed Sam's right to pass from this world at a time when the world had chosen to let go of him. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair because Sam couldn't undo it. And now Dean was going to die, and what could Sam do but sit and watch the sand sift through the hour glass? In that final moment, when the last grain fell, what the hell was he supposed to do?

He heard Dean talking to him. How long had they been talking? Sam's vision was a fish darting in and out of filtered sunlight, fading and blurring as his older brother's words washed upon his consciousness. Dean sounded tired, his timbre hollow. Sam was exhausted from dreams and stumbled over responses. Dean was saying that his fever had gone down enough for them to hit the road, and that he would gather their things and drive them to a warmer place where Sam could recover properly. Sam wondered just how many of his nightmares had made it to the surface, how many he'd screamed out or had narrated for all to hear. His inner fears had been twisted and given life, and as much as he hoped he'd managed to keep them to himself, he worried that he'd shared more than he'd planned. He felt as though he'd been turned inside out. And it, along with the fact that he'd become sick in the first place, brought him shame.

An immeasurable stretch of time later, Dean helped him through the front door and to the car. Sam blinked against the cold air, watching the snow swirl. In the end, the most heartbreaking thing was that he so desperately wanted to give something back to his older brother. All Dean's life, he'd been taking care of Sam. Now Sam's chance had come to repay the kindness, it appeared as though the younger would fail. Dean had given everything; his past, his present and his future. Sam had never wanted that much from anyone. Those things were never designed as gifts; they were never meant to be gambled away.

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Sam opened his eyes. Silence pressed upon his ears. He was wrapped in a blanket, balled upon the front seat of the Impala. His head leaned against the window, frozen glass numbing his cheek. The world outside was an alien landscape, white and distorted, flakes of snow blowing gently to rest and melt upon the window. Something was wrong. Something was missing. The keys were still in the ignition, but there was no sign of Dean. Painfully Sam forced cramped muscles into life, straightening and looking around wildly. He wasn't even sure where he was. There were no street signs, no other people or cars in sight. _Oh God_- Sam's heart pounded. Dean was gone. This was it. _Oh God-_ He called Dean's name, but there was no reply.

He'd been dreaming again, maddening slideshows of his brother being pulled into the depths of hell, the terrifying emptiness that moment would bring. He'd cried out to the demon, begging to exchange places. They'd taken the wrong man, and Sam had felt himself slowly torn to pieces by the knowledge that truthfully, it should have been him. God damn it; it should have been him.

Choking down fear, Sam shouldered his door open. Confused and disoriented, he stepped from the car. Snow swirled around him, its silence frightening and deafening. Stumbling against the open door, Sam caught sight of a figure leaning against the trunk. With a surge of relief that stole even more colour from his cheeks, he realized it was Dean.

Dean turned at the noise, his own cheeks unnaturally pale. Sam dropped an arm upon the Impala's roof to steady himself, regarding his brother and the tilt of his shoulders, the lines etched into is brow. Dean offered a weak smile, explaining that he'd just needed to stop for air. Sam's eyes travelled along the icy road, tracing the outlines of white hills and frozen forests. It was a strange place to be taking a break, a rather featureless part of the world that could have been anywhere. Dean motioned towards the car, advising him to get his ass back in, before he caught pneumonia. Sam wanted to tell Dean to do the same, but there was something in the older man's demeanour that silenced the words upon his tongue. Resignedly, Sam shuffled back into the car and pulled the door behind him. The last tendrils of his nightmare had almost receded, leaving him with a sense of reality that unfortunately wasn't too much different. Dean was still here, yes. But the clock hadn't stopped ticking.

A moment later Dean fell into the driver's seat, slamming his door. The key was twisted in the ignition and the silence was broken by the rumble of the engine, the air-conditioning firing up. Warm air blew against Sam's neck as he leaned back, eyes upon his brother. Dean's features were set in an expression that was mildly unsettling, and Sam couldn't tear his gaze from it. There were patches of moisture on the older brother's cheeks that stood out against his waxen skin, a pinkness rimming his eyes that betrayed more than just a lack of sleep. As Sam processed the man before him, he found himself worrying. But Dean shook him off, as always, saying that Sam should go back to sleep. And the moisture was brushed from his cheeks as the wipers brushed melting snow from the windshield; clearing away whatever emotion he was currently hiding, erasing the evidence that such an emotion had ever been.

In their own private worlds, both brothers were, very slowly, unravelling.

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_It doesn't hurt me  
Do you want to feel how it feels  
Do you want to know, know that it doesn't hurt me  
Do you want to hear about the deal that I'm making  
You, it's you and me_

_And if I only could  
I'd make a deal with God  
And I'd get him to swap our places  
Be running up that road  
Be running up that hill  
Be running up that building  
Say, if I only could_

_You don't want to hurt me  
But see how deep the bullet lies  
Unaware I'm tearing you asunder…_

(from _Running Up That Hill_, Kate Bush.)


	2. PART TWO

_I was originally going to leave this as a one-shot, but a couple of requests to continue it, as well as boredom, have got the better of me. This is possibly not a good idea, but nevermind, here's Part 2 anyway. I had to change the rating. And it's still all speculation. I'm slightly nervous, but let's see what happens. Haha if it's terrible...well, I'll delete it ;)_

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**PART TWO**

Sam got better. That's not to say the nightmares stopped. They didn't. But in his waking hours he could function just as well as anyone else, without feeling dizzy or feverish, without having to battle to stand up. The physical aches went away, leaving only the psychological pains behind. Like a hawk he watched his brother; every moment, of every day, as though Dean would disappear should he relax his concentration.

Sam allowed his determination to override his growing desperation. He became manic in his quest to fix Dean's predicament, he became obsessed. Eventually he became overwrought with a raw need for answers, and a recklessness that rivalled his sibling's. With a complete disregard for his own wellbeing, Sam resolved to do whatever it would take to save Dean's life.

Dean, for his part, became complacent. His lack of care for the seriousness of their situation incensed Sam. Big brother acted as though it were no big deal, his one-way ticket into the depths of Hell. But Sam didn't care how thick Dean's mask was, he knew that somewhere underneath all that bravado, there had to be fear. No one could carry the knowledge that they were going to Hell and not be disturbed by it. It just wasn't normal.

More than once he tried to broach the subject with Dean. But each time his sibling spit back that it wasn't up for discussion. All the words Sam had perched on the edge of his tongue, all the things he was so desperate to say to his brother- and more so, all the things he needed to hear in return- remained unsaid. And a gaping chasm opened between them, driving them apart. Maddeningly, it was a hole that only Sam seemed to be aware of.

They shifted around. They churned through jobs. Each time Dean would take steps to ensure Sam was nowhere near the line of fire. It began to grate on Sam. Big brother's disinterest in personal safety or any sort of future for himself was infuriating. Sam wanted to belt him, and a couple of times nearly did. Knuckles tingling, he bit his lip and narrowed bewildered eyes at his sibling. They still had eight months, God damn it. Did Dean have so little faith in him?

One afternoon, Sam resolved to speak with his brother. He decided to corner Dean as soon as they walked through the door of their motel room. They'd just finished a job, and Dean had been beaten to a pulp. Blood dripped down his wrists and dribbled off his elbows as he drove them towards a hot shower and their beds, a frightening lack of expression across his face as he stared, unblinkingly, at the road. Sam had had enough. Dean may be convinced he was dying, but for fuck's sake, 'dying' didn't mean 'dead'.

Sam threw a hand upon Dean's shoulder as the motel room door closed behind them, spinning the older man around and trying not to focus on the blood raining upon the carpet, the startling stiffness of Dean's jaw. Sam demanded to know what was going on, because Dean sure as hell hadn't been acting like himself. Their gazes locked, and Sam felt his heart stutter inside him for an instant, as he realized his brother's eyes were alarmingly devoid of all that had ever lit them.

Sam knew that Dean was shutting him out. It broke him into a thousand pieces to imagine how much Dean was probably suffering on the inside, yet the older man still remained determined to keep his emotions down. As much as Sam found it terrifying, he so desperately wanted to smash his sibling's walls. Sam didn't need a hero as much as a brother. He found himself missing Dean, even though Dean wasn't gone. He wanted to remind Dean that even the toughest soldiers got scared, sometimes.

A memory came to Sam. One night, as a breath between nightmares, he found himself in front of a television, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He was six years old, and Dean was ten. Big brother sat awkwardly in one of the green velvet chairs that added a touch of sophistication to their otherwise banal motel room. Their father was out, and Dean, as always, was keeping watch. As a response to something Sam heard on T.V, he asked what it meant to take a bullet for someone. Dean rolled his eyes, as he did with most of Sam's questions, but graced the younger with enough patience to form a response. _It means you love them, Sammy_.

Sam's face scrunched in confusion as he considered this answer. _I'll take a bullet for you then_, he replied earnestly, flashing a wide and dimpled grin.

Sam awoke, back in the present, his throat constricting as hot tears scorched his cheeks. He turned his face towards his brother but, as always, Dean appeared to be sleeping, peacefully.

They decided to investigate what could prove to be a new job. One frosty evening in a little town, they broke into a public swimming pool. The pool had been closed, and had been empty for quite some time. Six children had drowned there; a couple back in the sixties, the rest more recently, all at once.

Sam had found the article, whilst forfeiting sleep to do more research on demons. Dean had pounced on it, exclaiming that he was craving something to keep him occupied, because they'd been stuck in a room together twiddling their thumbs for almost a week. The tension between them was stretched to its limit, and pretty soon, Sam knew one of them would to break. He'd agreed to check it out, but only because his older brother was driving him insane. They'd armed themselves with flashlights, EMF, and guns filled with rock salt as they'd crept into the building.

Again there was the imbalance. Sam picked up on it immediately. Dean continuously cut in front of him to be first around corners, his need to protect the younger in overdrive. It ground against Sam's pride, because they'd never worked like this. So ready to sacrifice himself, Dean combed the building, prepared to charge whatever they turned up. But nothing stirred.

In a corridor with gaping, stained windows that gazed upon a large, outdoor pool, Sam raised the possibility that perhaps there was nothing there and that this wasn't a hunt, after all. Dean just blinked at him, chest heaving and an unspoken desperation scarring his eyes, revealing his hunger for a fight. A fist of emotion seized Sam's heart, and little brother found his knuckles whitening, jaw clenching. He pinned his sibling with a steady gaze. He was about to argue, but was cut short, as an unseen force swept him from his feet and hurled him into a nearby wall. Sam's teeth smashed together as he hit his head, cutting his tongue.

Dean snapped into action. EMF cast aside and screeching, the older hunter nailed the spirit with a round of rock salt, chips of plaster showering the floor, salt hitting the walls. Something wailed, agonizingly. Sam clawed at the wall, frantic for a grip, trying to stop his mind splitting from the pain in his head as the corridor bucked and spun violently beneath him. He'd lowered his guard, and some spirit had got the drop on him. Now Rambo-Dean was all shoot first, aim later, redecorating the building.

Shakily, Sam got a lock on the spirit as he scooped up his gun. He managed to put two and two together in time to see it fly at Dean, while Dean reloaded his weapon. Dean had opened a door out to the pool, and was coaxing the spirit away from Sam. Sam realized what his brother was doing, and hastily resolved to put a hole in Dean's plan. With impressive force, Sam flung himself at his sibling, sending Dean sprawling back into the corridor as the spirit followed the younger out to the pool. Sam lunged at the door and pulled it closed, locking it, effectively putting a barrier between himself and the spirit, and Dean. God, Dean wouldn't be impressed, he thought.

The last thing Sam saw, as he was thrown backwards, was Dean's fist against the glass, a look of panic over his face. Sam fired round after round into the sprit's chest as it followed him through the air, impacting him with a jolt and driving him into startlingly icy, chlorinated water. The air was expelled from his lungs as he was pushed to the bottom of a pool he'd sworn had been empty only a moment earlier.

Bubbles fizzed and rushed against his ears as he travelled deeper into the inky depths. Ghostly fingers wrapped around his wrists and ankles as he struggled to swim. Briefly, he caught sight of the spirit's face, distorted and twisted, mouth open and screaming, decaying teeth gnashing towards him. There were children, too, lifeless corpses drifting; rag dolls wrapped in endless sleep, their skin transparent, eyes hollow. Sam felt himself weakening.

As his back met the concrete bottom, the nightmarish spirit disintegrated. He was left to stare up at the rippling surface and the white blob of moon wobbling like jell-o, its light quivering. His last conscious thought was of his brother. He hoped desperately that Dean had managed to get away.

A thin tendril of blood wound its way like smoke from his wounded forehead, as freezing water filled his now open mouth, flooding his lungs. Sam vanished, pulled beneath the surface of his consciousness. He found himself standing on a road that, should he choose to walk it, would lead him to death.

Perhaps, he thought vaguely, this could be his chance to set things right.

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tbc 


	3. PART THREE

_Not much time to write is making this a bit hard, but here's the next part. Thanks for reading :) And a big thanks to everyone who's taken the time to review. Ta._

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**PART THREE**

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Sam was dying, but it didn't feel wrong. This road was his to walk and he'd been meant to walk it over four months ago. This was his destiny, the direction his journey had taken. As his eyes fell upon the strange landscape of his final stretch of life, he was filled with a confidence that couldn't be shaken. He felt himself drawn towards whatever lay at its end.

How many roads had he travelled, how many highways had he driven down? In all his years, there'd been none like this; thrumming underfoot as a heartbeat, stretching as a runway to the stars. He was hypnotized, completely lost in awe. A small voice rang as a bell against the remaining shards of his conscience, encouraging him, filling him with an emotion he thought he'd lost over recent months. Like a tree drawing water, Sam was filled with hope.

It was his time. Beyond a doubt, this was where he was supposed to be; erasing what he was worried had been set in stone, taking back what his brother had given up for him. Sam was re-writing history, re-shuffling the game pieces, shifting the odds. All their lives, Dean had sacrificed endlessly, but now the tables were turned and Sam was the one buying a future for the older. It was the only way he could see to undo the wretched deal Dean had made, and put things right.

Dean deserved to be happy. He'd never deserved the bourdon which had been thrust upon him when their father had asked him to look after Sam. He'd had responsibilities from the age of four, and had had to grow up in one hell of a hurry. Sam couldn't help but wonder whether his older brother had harboured dreams of his own; hopes to one day become something other than what he was, to go to college, or start a family. Sam imagined Dean would make a great dad, if ever it came to that. Dean deserved to have those opportunities. It didn't seem fair that he go down fighting a battle that had never really been his to begin with.

Sam wasn't bitter. Life had made it obvious that his own future was never meant to be. Dean could contest it all he liked, but Sam knew it was for the best that things happened this way. Too many people had died. Too many of their loved ones had been lost. Sam felt that his time upon the earth had caused more grief than good, and that his very existence had come at such a hefty cost. He didn't want the last person he truly cared about to have to pay the balance. Dean had given, and continued to give, far more than Sam had ever asked. It was time to fix that.

One foot in front of the other, Sam began to walk. He didn't look back; he didn't need to. He knew what he was leaving, and he knew exactly how important it was. Dean would forgive him. Surely, Sam figured, his sibling couldn't be angry with him forever.

He patched the distance between himself and the horizon. Approaching the stars, he felt as though he were approaching old acquaintances. Sam felt a great weight lifted from his shoulders, and a cloak of peace settle gently in its place. But a single breath was all that passed over his lips before the stars suddenly exploded, knocking him backwards, and he was dragged feet first in the direction from which he'd come.

With startling ferocity Sam was thrown back into his body. Chest heaving and burning, he attempted to curl on his side as fetid water was expelled from his lungs.

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Dean's horrified expression was a silhouette against the light of the jell-o moon. Sam blinked stinging eyes towards his brother, the rest of reality assaulting him like a punch to the gut. He'd failed, he was still alive, and Dean was still dying. With a convulsive shudder, Sam turned his head and threw up, his throat burning from devastation and bile.

Dean's strong arm was behind his shoulders, lifting him from the ground. Big brother's voice was muffled, as if through a pillow, and Sam couldn't work out what was being said. Dean sounded hysterical, strangely frightened; two emotions that had never fitted him well. Sam wriggled, attempting to get away, but the arms held him firm and eventually Dean's voice regained its familiarity, barking an order for Sam to _calm the hell down_. Sam's struggles ceased, and he pulled himself together enough to haul his rampaging emotions in check.

Sam was pulled to his feet, head spinning and vision slipping sideways. He'd been lying on the cold concrete bottom of an empty pool, a spread of stars above him and stained tiled walls around him. Moonlight glinted off a silver ladder railing as Dean dragged them towards the shallow end of the pool. Sam's feet had trouble adjusting to the upward sloping ground, causing him to stumble and slip and Dean to have to tighten his hold. The older hunter's gun darted left and right, determinedly seeking out something. It took Sam a moment before he recalled that a spirit had attacked them, and that there'd been children's corpses floating in the pool. Choking and gasping, he attempted to recount his experience to his brother. But his tongue felt swollen and wouldn't move to shape the words.

Without wasting a heartbeat, Dean led them through the building. No spirit showed itself as both brothers slipped out the way they'd come in, sparing little thought for the mess of glass and bullets showered upon the ground. Sam noticed his brother's features set in a haunting disarray of barely suppressed emotion, and the line of his jaw revealed the severity of whatever he was feeling. Silenced by unease, Sam allowed himself to be deposited in the car. Dean threw their weapons in the trunk then himself into the driver's seat, slamming the key into the ignition and stomping on the gas.

The Impala roared to life, and Sam twisted his body away from the stony glare of his sibling. Dean's concrete eyes travelled over his shaking little brother to cut them a path through the town. Tires screaming, they abandoned one God-awful situation for another. Sam felt like he'd been crushed, while his brother was a statue of silence, knuckles white against the wheel.

They arrived at the motel, and Dean shuffled Sam into the room. Sam wanted to bat at his brother's supporting arms, but found himself infuriatingly unable to do so. The floor bucked and weaved, coaxing Sam into an ungainly dance. Dean's firm grip was all that steered him to his bed, and not into a wall, dropping him on the covers with as much grace as it appeared the older man could muster.

Sam tried to sit up but was pushed back down, vision swimming. Dean's chest heaved and his too-wide eyes regarded his younger brother, gaze burning, hands clenching into fists in a possible attempt to mask his own shaking. With a tone that ricocheted between horror, panic and concern, he told Sam never to pull a stunt like that again. And with a failing grip on reality and a fiery gaze of his own, Sam pushed up onto elbows, demanding to know how what he'd done could possibly be any different from Dean taking the death-seat for him in the first place.

There was a moment of splintering tension, in which Sam felt the bonds between them creak and scream. Dean opened his mouth to say something but Sam's weighted eyelids drooped closed, shutting the older out, and he dropped against the mattress and fell into unconsciousness again. Sam swam away from his sibling, wishing, for once, that Dean had been too late. He should have died there on the cold bottom of the empty pool, God damn it. He should have died there, and Dean could have been saved.

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3:27am, Sam's sticky eyes peeled open to blink at an empty room. His laptop was running, staining the dark with a haunting blue glow. Not a breath of noise reached his ears, and his anxiety was sparked. Ignoring his spinning head and aching limbs, he threw his awkwardly long legs over the side of his bed and scanned the dimness, looking for his brother. But Dean's bed was empty, and there was a small note on the nightstand, scribbled in haste with a pen left beside it. _Gone to visit Harry._ Sam's brow crinkled in pained confusion as his vision stumbled over his brother's messy lettering.

Fingers grinding tired eyes, he attempted to make sense of what it could mean. Finding his footing, he staggered to the laptop, moving the curser to dismiss the screen saver. A page of notes rested beside the computer; an address for a cemetery and a name, age, and date of death. Staring at the blurry screen, Sam scanned an article detailing the suicide of Harry Elkins, the janitor of the local pool back in 1965, after he'd supposedly been harassed repeatedly by a bunch of kids. It appeared Dean had done some more research, and had found their angry spirit. By the looks of it, Sam thought worriedly, he'd then made the incredibly responsible decision of going to take care of things on his own.

Sam's thoughts churned angrily, as he grabbed his coat and cell. Punching in the number for a cab and shaking from more than just the cold, he yanked open the motel room door. Stepping into the empty night, he hoped he was overreacting and Dean would be okay. Dean doing something stupid, like this, was what Sam had been most afraid of, since the older man had started acting strangely. _God Dean, you're not invincible_. Sam stumbled into the car park, throwing curses at the sky.

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tbc _(just a little bit more, because I'm having fun)_


	4. PART FOUR

_I'm so sorry this has taken me so long! This story's lost the heart for me I think, but here's the last part anyway. Yeah... it's still short. Sorry! I did want to get it done before the season started but oh well. Thanks for reading :) And to the people who asked me to extend it in the first place, I hope it's okay. Take care x_

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**PART FOUR**

Dean wasn't difficult to locate; his flashlight was a blemish in the darkness. Stumbling along the leaf-covered road, Sam closed the distance between himself and his brother, tripping, more than once, on tree roots that had raised and broken the bitumen. The cemetery stretched like an obstacle course around him, gathering the dark from the edges and smearing it into shadows. The air was thin and icy, chilling the perspiration on his back. Battered lungs burning, he swallowed convulsively, relentlessly fighting the urge to be sick. More than mildly frustrated, he approached his brother.

Dean was a portrait of determination. Sweat glazed his forearms and brow as he hoisted himself from the freshly opened grave. Shovel roughly cast aside, he bent to grab a sack of salt, tearing it open and upending it into the hole with no consideration for meticulousness. The sack then followed its contents into the pit, and a dented can of kerosene was snatched and hastily opened. Sam's steps faltered as he narrowed his eyes, studying his brother, wondering again at the man Dean seemed to have become. The situation bothered Sam, but not nearly as much as the shadows crossing Dean's forehead, and the sharp, rigid set of his jaw.

Dean barely flinched. Stony eyes directed into the hole and dirt-covered hands shaking out the kerosene, his mind was on the job as Sam made his presence known, stepping out of the darkness. Big brother threw the empty can to join the shovel on the sidelines and fished out a box of hotel matches from his pocket, wrestling them briefly before striking one to life. Sam asked what the hell Dean thought he was doing, coming out here on his own in the middle of the night. The light of the small flame danced momentarily in the mirror of the older hunter's eyes, catching a splinter of emotion there, a splinter of life, before being tossed into the grave with the rest of the ingredients. Dean side-stepped the question, demanding to know instead what Sam was doing out of bed.

Sam felt his frustration boil. The match missed its target and was extinguished by the damp dirt. Dean cursed and struck another, paying no mind to the knife-edge of Sam's gaze as it traced his uncharacteristically jerky movements. Again the flame danced, and again Dean held it above the hole. Sam felt emotion ripple his features as Dean's hollow eyes met his, older brother making a comment that he didn't need Sam's help because everything was fine, completely under control. Sam wanted to argue that that wasn't the point, they were supposed to work as a team. But a sudden rush of air stole the words from his lips and the flame abruptly vanished from Dean's fingers. Quick as lightening, the handle of the shovel whipped up and struck the older man across the brow, sending him sprawling. And Sam felt what he could have sworn were clammy fingers wrapping around his ankles, pulling his feet from under him.

Harry had arrived. Sam tasted dirt against his teeth as he struggled to regain his senses, swaying to his knees. Dean was out, thrown nearly ten feet away and curled against the base of an angel statue. Sam blinked spots from his vision, thinking how serene his brother looked, like a child asleep. But another blink rapidly dissolved the illusion, bringing light to several bright crimson trails winding their way down one side of Dean's face. Sam's heart rate picked up, and he was moving before another thought entered his mind.

Dean's gun was beside the shovel, and Sam made a dive for it. Unfortunately, Harry had other plans, hitting Sam with a sudden blow to the ribs. Sam felt himself thrown sideways, and landed five feet from the weapon. Raising his head to try again, a threatening sound from the direction of his brother caught his attention. Sam threw his eyes to where Dean lay and noticed the angel wobbling, about to come down. _Holy shit- _Sam sucked in a breath, his racing heart stopping. Lunging clumsily, he threw his body over his sibling's and rolled them both out of the way, just as the statue shuddered one last time and hit the ground with a crash. Sam let out a loud curse, feeling the rush of air and dust from the falling stone catch at his hair, and rubble bite at his exposed skin.

Dean groaned but didn't wake. Harry was a menacing blur, a shadow in the corner of Sam's eye, darting this way and that. Sam's fingers curled around the box of matches stuffed in Dean's pocket and he fumbled one free. Struggling to his feet, he struck it to life and moved away from his brother, wanting the spirit's attention on himself instead of Dean. Harry took the bait, ploughing into him at full force and sending him careening. Sam was violently smashed along the ground and thrown straight into the open grave.

For a moment he lay unmoving, stunned, winded and confused. Harry's remains were brittle and sharp, crunching and snapping beneath him. Sam scrambled against their snagging spires, wincing as a piece of rib stuck into him. Raising his head above the lip of the grave, he caught sight of the spirit, moving towards his brother at frightening speed. He cried out, once again demanding its attention. The dead man whirled around, and Sam noticed the hollow eyes widen as he struck another match, the flame dancing menacingly between them. With an exhausted grin of satisfaction, Sam threw one last look at his unconscious sibling, before letting the match fall.

The kerosene ignited. Fire rushed to fill the hole. A scream so piercing it threatened to make Sam's ears bleed echoed through the night. Smoke rose in a blinding screen, pressing its way into Sam's eyes and lungs. With skin beginning to blister, Sam threw himself up onto flat ground, rolling frantically to smother the flames that clung to his clothes. Tears flowed freely from his stinging eyes and the smell of singed hair assaulted his nose. He coughed and hacked until he gagged and threw up. His limbs shook so hard he could barely move them. Harry's screams intensified, and then they were gone.

Flames licked the sky. Sam felt their hunger as they kissed the stars. Hurtling ungracefully towards his brother Sam scooped up the shovel and gun, tucking them under an arm as he hoisted Dean over his shoulder. Dean was pale and unmoving, but breathing, so that was okay. Adrenalin shot through Sam's spent body as he rushed them back through the cemetery, carving a path through the darkness, determined to find the car. Finally, after what seemed like hours of running, Sam's gaze was snagged by the outline of the Impala under some trees, and, stretched far beyond his physical limits and exhausted beyond belief, he collapsed against the driver's door, lowering his brother to the ground. Sam swayed, doubled over, choking and gasping against the icy 4:00am air. Dean's hand twitched suddenly, and his eyes fluttered open. But Sam was too busy hurting to notice or care.

Big brother groaned, swore loudly, and sat up. Sam's focus dissolved inwardly, blocking out the world as he fought to gain control of his breathing and churning emotions. His thoughts bled into one another, staining his vision red. Dean's questioning hand on his arm was an irritation, and it pushed him over the edge. Fear evaporating, Sam was left with an angry residue that quickly overwhelmed him, causing him to snap.

His fist connected with Dean's already blood-stained jaw. Big brother was caught off guard and stumbled against the hood of the car, groggily blinking, his hand shooting out in a futile attempt to grab hold of something. Sam stopped his fall, roughly snatching a fist-full of leather and drawing his arm back to take another swing. Chest heaving, he stared hard at his brother. Dean opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it, possibly noticing the fire in his sibling's eyes or the burns on his skin. There was a moment of scorching silence, before Sam found his words. With the agony of raw emotion, he demanded to know when, exactly, Dean had stopped trusting him; when, exactly, the older had decided to go it alone. Because it seemed as if there was a great wall between them, and each day they were drifting further apart. Did Dean find it so hard to believe that his little brother could save him?

Hot against cold, sharp breaths broke Sam's lips. He waited for a response to his questions, but no such comfort came. Dean's eyes were broken mirrors, glassy in the night. Sam released his brother's jacket, withdrawing his trembling fingers. Shattered, he stepped away, slumping to his knees upon the frozen grass.

ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

Time passed. Snow began to fall. Sam felt the flakes settle against his cheeks and catch in his hair. There was a shuffling beside him, and Dean lowered himself to the ground. They both sat, backs pressed against the side of the Impala, staring into nothing. Sam couldn't work out whether the burning in his eyes was from the smoke he'd been subjected to, or the strain of suppressing all the tears he'd refused to let fall.

Dean wasn't one for sensitive moments, and discussions like this were taboo in his world. It was a surprise, then, when he began to talk; his frayed voice a lot thinner than usual, but bearing a splinter of familiarity that Sam had missed so much these past few weeks. Dean apologized, explaining to Sam that he did trust him, he was just scared. He didn't want his little brother to die trying to save him. Sam crinkled his brow, confused, and asked what Dean meant by that. But the older brother simply shifted his weight, hugging himself against the near unbearable cold and biting his lip. Again Sam asked what he meant, but Dean just shook his head.

_So it's okay for you, but not for me?_ Sam voiced the thought, the words tumbling from his lips.

But Dean didn't answer, and the gap stretched between them once more, endless and threatening. Sam's eyes fell closed as he mentally attempted to bridge it.

Eventually Sam turned to face his sibling, staring hard at the hunched silhouette. _That's not for you to decide_, he stated simply, lacing his words with defiance and feeling surprised that he still had it in him.

Dean's reply was a whispered admission, a heart-felt regret. With a slight nod of his head and trembling fingers raking nervously through his hair, he answered quietly, _I know. You're so fucking stubborn, Sammy._

Sam felt his lip quirk into what was perhaps his first smile in months. The warmth didn't reach his eyes, but he savored the feeling anyway. _Yeah, well... I've learned from the best._

ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

_You don't want to hurt me  
But see how deep the bullet lies  
Unaware I'm tearing you asunder  
There is thunder in our hearts_

_So much hate for the ones we love  
Tell me we both matter don't we?_

_...And if I only could  
I'd make a deal with God  
And I'd get him to swap our places  
Be running up that road  
Be running up that hill  
Be running up that building  
Say, if I only could..._


End file.
